“Congratulations,” Adam York said, sounding the now-familiar refrain. “Good going.”
“Thank you,” she responded. “I think,” she added a little lamely.
“You think? What’s this? I’ve been watching the newspaper reports. You ran a good strong campaign, and you wound up garnering yourself a good solid base of support. I also heard they might go ahead and swear you in prior to January.”
“You heard right,” Joanna said, “but you’re be hind times. It’s a done deal. I’m a sworn officer as of two o’clock this afternoon.”
“So why this distinct lack of enthusiasm? Nerves?”
Joanna laughed. “How’d you guess? That’s one of the reasons I’m calling you back so late tonight. I waited until after Jenny went to sleep. She’s really worried about me, Adam, afraid something’s going to happen to me just like it did to her father. So I’m calling to ask what you think.”
“On what subject?”
“I helped you put a major crimp in a big-time drug dealer’s way of doing business. I was elected to office on the premise that I continue that process. What are the chances of his sending one of his hit men after me?”
The phone line was quiet for so long that Joanna thought the line had gone dead. “Adam?”
“Just a minute. I’m here. Let me ask you a question in return. What are the chances of someone being hit by lightning?”
“Not that good, but it happens. Depends on where a person is standing when the storm hits. If he’s out in the open with nothing much around him, or if he’s wearing or holding something that’s a natural conductor, then he could be in big trouble.”
“Exactly,” Adam York agreed.
“What do you mean-‘exactly’?”
“As of right now, you are standing in the middle of an open field. A hell of a storm is blowing up all around you, and that badge they handed you today is nothing if not a goddamn lightning rod.”
“Oh,” Joanna breathed. “I see. Any suggestions?”
“APOA, for one thing.”
The Arizona Police Officers Academy in the Phoenix suburb of Peoria was a mutually sponsored training program for officers from many different jurisdictions throughout Arizona. The six-week-long program of formal classroom lectures, lab work, and rolplay provided general basic training for police recruits from all over the state, after which they returned to their separate departments for more in-depth and jurisdiction specific instruction.
“You mean sign up for that course and take it just like I’m a new hire?”
“Aren’t you?” Adam York asked pointedly.
Joanna didn’t answer. “What else?”
“Target practice,” Adam York returned. “Lots of it. From what I know about you, you’re already a fair shot, but target practice never hurt anybody. And a Kevlar vest. Get one that’s properly fitted and wear the damn thing.”
“You sound serious.”
“I have never been more serious in my life,” Adam York asserted.
“If it really is this bad, how come you called to congratulate me?”
“Because congratulations are in order. What you did was amazing, and I’m not just talking about winning the election, either. You flat out saved that woman’s life.”
“If Jenny heard you sounding like this, it would scare the daylights out of her. You act as though I’m suffering from some kind of death wish.”
“What I’m telling you is strictly common sense. Any other cop would say exactly the same thing. People on the outside may make fun of the ‘war on drugs.” They may claim it’s just so much political propaganda and bullshit. But you and I both know it’s a war-a real one with real guns and live ammunition, where real people get killed. I’ve seen you in action, Sheriff Joanna Brady. In this man’s war, you’re one soldier I’m very happy to have on my side.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said.
“Think nothing of it. By the way, I’ve got a catalog from a specialty shop in California. It’s where some of the female federal agents get street clothes-type equipment, vests included. I’ll send a catalog your way tomorrow. And there’s another book you should have as well. Where do you want me to send them?”
“To the Cochise County Criminal Justice Complex, Highway Eighty, Bisbee, Arizona. I should get moved into my office sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” Adam York told her. “It’s too late to make it in tomorrow’s mail, but you should have it the day after at the latest.”
“Thanks, Adam,” she said gratefully. “Thanks a bunch.”
She went to bed and tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t let her. At last she crawled out of bed, turned on the light, and reached for the phone book.
Bisbee had come so far into the modern era that after generations of five-number dialing, telephone users now had to use all seven numbers to make a local call, which seemed like an unnecessary and cumbersome waste of time. But some small-town practices persisted. Alvin Bernard, Bisbee’s chief of police, still had his home telephone number listed in the directory, and Joanna decided it wasn’t too late to call.
Back when Alvin graduated from high school, he had flunked the company physical and had missed being hired by P.D. When he went to work as a cop for the city of Bisbee, his former class mates had looked down their noses
